


Black Nail Polish

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:14:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: prompt: shaw remembers to get some black nail polish for her hacker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Nail Polish

As Sameen Shaw taps at her phone screen roughly, two hands glide over her shoulders, connected arms stretching down and around until she is encased from behind. The hands act as restraints at her wrists, gently forcing her cell out of view as their owner rests her chin on Shaw’s shoulder. Judging by the chipped black nail polish, Shaw doesn’t even need to turn her head to know who it is.

“What do you want, Root,” she asks, not harshly- but not kindly either. Root tilts her head into Shaw’s in response, dark brown curls partially obscuring Shaw’s vision. Root’s fingers are snakes as they slither around Shaw’s hands, swiping her cellphone with ease. Shaw’s jaw tightens slightly, yet she forces a calmness over herself, hoping that if she appears unfazed by the action, it won’t happen again.

“Just checking on my favorite killer,” Root replies in a minutely neutral tone, although Shaw can feel the smile on Root’s face from so close. Root holds the phone out for both herself and Shaw to see; Shaw drops her hands down to her lap.

“Reese is gonna be so bummed he’s no longer number one,” Shaw cracks in a more-or-less dry tone; still, Root chuckles.

“The big lug will get over it,” she responds. “What’s  _this_?”

* * *

 

“Resumé,” Shaw responds as she peers with loathing at the cell phone. The letters on the screen wriggle like worms, refusing to remain still as they inch into disarray. “Because you’re all seeing ’ _friend_ ’ can’t seem to print one out.”

Root pulls away the slightest bit, her warmth dissipating with it. Soon, Shaw can feel the icy fingers of the subway station clawing at the side of her neck, and turns to face Root. She wears a coy smirk, eyes narrowed playfully.

“ _Priorities_ , Sam,” Root chastises lightly. “Some things require more attention than others.”

“Yeah, I  _forgot_ ,” Shaw remarks sarcastically. “Who could  _ever_  be everywhere at  _once_?” Root doesn’t respond right away, just looks at Shaw in a way that makes her heart drum a little faster. It’s as if her eyes are a camera and the glow in them is the flash, saving this singular moment to her memory’s album for reasons Shaw may never understand.

They develop for a minute more in silence before Root’s gaze darts away. Finally out of the locked stare, Shaw’s frozen irritation begins to thaw.

Before her, Root begins to type flawlessly on the cell, fingertips barely grazing the screen as sentences string themselves together. Shaw’s teeth grind, remembering her galumphing strokes with a layer of chagrin.  _I didn’t join this team because I’m some sort of tech nerd_ , she seethes silently, ears burning hotter and hotter until Root stops.

Then, she scrolls back to the top. While Shaw had only finished five questions in her forty minute quest, Root conquered fifteen in only a few measly minutes. However, scrolling back through, Shaw sees a frown forming at the corner of Root’s mouth from the corner of her eye.

“You spelled engineer wrong,” Root mumbles out quietly, correcting it at once. Something in Shaw begins to snap.

With an unintelligible grumble, Shaw yanks the phone back from Root’s grasp, clicking harshly over to the next page of- thankfully- multiple choice questions.

**First Name: Sameen**

**Last Name: Silver**

**Graduated College: Yes**

On and on in an endless mudslide of over studious questions filter through. The further she goes on, the more she begins to forget her edge, Root’s close proximity becoming more natural to her.

**Family: None**

**Pets: Dog**

**Married: No**

**Significant other/Committed Relationship:**

Shaw stops, the yes or no question like a brick wall. Her stomach clenches, jaw rolling in a slow circle.

_Yes or No?_

_Well, not really,_  Shaw thinks to herself, the thought sticking like tar as she rips it to the surface.  _Not actually. Only a little_. Her mind travels to Root. Not only the fact that she’s right behind Shaw now, but all of the other times and other things.  _How long does it have to be to be considered ‘committed’?_  She asks herself.  _Because we haven’t been together that long. I mean, it’s been a while, but…_  Her thoughts trail off, their insubstantial babble having no backing whatsoever.  _But, come on, significant other? Really?_

Sure, they had been more or less together for a few months, but Shaw acted almost no different in any situation.  _Maybe not shrug Root off, and not flirt with anyone else, and spend more time around her outside of the occupation, an- shit._  Shaw repeats that little word over and over until it becomes one infinite list of letters.  _All of that is pretty significant, especially when it stems from one person._  Now that Shaw ponders it further, the ‘more or less together’ has been significantly ‘more’ oriented.  _Significant. There’s that word again._

Her thumb hovers over the scroll tab, waiting for the signal.  _Yes. Or. No._

In a sort of defeated way, Shaw deliberates on hitting yes and getting it over with. But then, she knows Root would see it, and she would never allow Root to see something like that. Images of the ruthless, ceaseless teasing and taunting at Root’s hand swallows her whole, and her lip twitches. No, she would never stand for that. Her thumb travels down to the 'no’ only to stop yet again. Hovering. Waiting.

Something in Shaw can’t seem to click it. Shaw, the one who could look a man in the eye and pull the trigger; Shaw, the one who could snap a man’s neck without an ounce of regret- Shaw, the one who cannot press her finger to a small, compliant screen. Usually, guilt is a nonexistant feeling in Shaw’s system, but now it floods her. She knows she could say it is just a cover and that it has nothing to do with who she really is, and knows that Root would believe her. Or at least say she believes her. Yet, thinking back to her previous answers, Shaw knows the rest of them are far too close to pretend it was all mere fabrication.

With a sigh, Shaw locks her phone, letting it rest down in her lap. Closing her eyes, Shaw tilts her head back, allowing it to rest exhaustedly on Root’s shoulder. She criticizes the Machine for not being able to spit her out a pre-created identity and resumé, yet it is no longer for lack of wanting to push papers.

Shaw lets her hands fall at either side of her legs, relishing the near silence. She listens to the sound of Root’s breath and the sound of her own, trying not to think.

_Tick. Tick-tap. Tap. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tap._

Shaw opens one eye; peers around. At first, everything is out of focus, but after blinking a few times, the beige station wall becomes crisp.

_Tick-ti-tap. Tap tap. Ta-tap tap tick._

It’s a soft yet irksome noise that crows in her left ear.  _What the Hell is-_

“Have any prior experience in mechanic engineering?” Root asks, and Shaw’s blood turns to ice. Whipping her face to the side, Shaw finds Root’s face illuminated in a pale blue, all the while she keeps a pondering demeanor. “I’ll say yes; it’ll look better.”

_Tap. Tap tap._

Smoke starts to pour from Shaw’s nose and ears and rage throws dangerous flames into a barren hay stack.

 _Tick. Tick tap. Tap._  Root’s face lights up in slight amusement, apparently finding a question she likes.

“Have you ever been previously  _married_?” Shaw’s lips itches into a sneer.

“Can’t the  _Machine_  give you the answers?” She snarls. Root raises her eyebrows.

“I  _guess_ ,” she responds in an innocent tone. “But annoying you is  _so_  much more  _fun_.” Shaw reaches for the cell, but Root spins just out of reach. Slipping away from Shaw entirely, Root stands a small foot away, devious glint in her eyes. Shaw comes to her feet, stepping around the bench and coming face to face with Root. Comes closer. So close that Shaw has to direct her smoldering gaze at a sharp upward angle; Root meeting it with one angled severely down. She smiles a Cheshire Cat grin.

“Root…” Shaw warns in a low, dangerous growl.

“ _Sameen_ ,” Root responds, unable to squelch the pleasurable purr in the word. Shaw makes a second attempt at the phone, and again, Root keeps it just out of reach. Root looks ready to take another step back- advance the game of tag- but Shaw beats her to it. Grabbing the front of her black t-shirt, Shaw wheels Root around, pinning her to the bench.

She overestimated the force, and Root drops one hand down to the top of the bench to steady herself, breath hitching at the action. Shaw’s eyes are dark and dangerous, but Root doesn’t mind. She rather enjoys it.

And in that second, Shaw realizes it. Realizes how much Root is enjoying the attention- either positive or negative depending upon perspective. That every thought in Shaw’s head is clear; that every lock and key expression is free flowing and all solely for her. Shaw’s fist tightens around Root’s shirt angrily.

Then, she releases it. Shaking her head and rolling her eyes, Shaw takes a few tense steps back, turns, then starts towards the exit.

“Tell me if I get the job,” Shaw mutters, fists clenching and fury blinding as she stiffly makes her way out.

Root says nothing, not that Shaw would have stuck around to listen. Instead, she makes her pace brisk with irritation, keeping her head down as she plows out onto the city street. One thought circulates sickeningly in her head all the while:

_Did she say yes or no?_

________\ If You’re Number’s Up /__________

Her boot presses the pedal through the floor, the sound of the supercharged 6.2 liter HEMI roaring in her ears. Drowning out everything. The world jumps by in a flash, the trees on either side of the highway a single green sheet draped endlessly down the road. The dashes that separate the lanes are a continuous white line. She can’t look at anything for too long. A single second with her eyes off the road is an entire football field without sight. Yeah, she’s going  _that_  fast.

Two-hundred-and-freaking-two miles per hour down a mostly deserted highway, second key in the ignition and teeth gritted in concentration. An ant of a car becomes life sized in a matter of moments, and Shaw dashes out of the lane at the last second, fingers encasing the wheel a little lighter. A streak of red on a green canvas, Shaw can’t even peer back through the window to relish the stunned look on the other man’s face.

The stretch of road narrows, the curves becoming tighter and more frequent, until Shaw’s heart begins to chug at the speed of the pistons. Rumble as if she too is a car racing down the blur of a road, only she has no muffler. In the midsts of it all, she has no time for thinking or feeling- only driving. She likes it.

She hears the faint sound of sirens from behind her, but pays them no mind. In under five minutes, she’d be in Niagara and that poor cop would still be poking along the outskirts of Queens. And, just as she predicted, the siren quickly evanesces into oblivion. Periodically more of them burst into the air, but none remain for long.

Until there is a blockade three bends up.

Shaw knew it was coming, but still swears under her breath, damning the world for not giving anything to her easily. She wishes she could run the entire planet over with her hijacked Hellcat.

 _Yes, highjacked._  Fresh on the lot that morning, and fresh off twenty minutes ago, when Shaw waltzed in, took both sets of keys, and soared off, going zero to sixty in 2.9 seconds. _If they don’t want it stolen, they shouldn’t make it so easy to steal,_  Shaw thinks to herself with a smirk, the thought costing her two football fields. The police aren’t moving, and at this point stopping would be useless. Running through them would’ve been an option; however, Shaw deemed the prowling demon of a machine too precious to waste on a few uncooperative blue bloods. Her mind flashes a picture of Carter-  _they’re just doing their jobs._

Four football fields.

As the whites of the first cop’s eyes become visible behind heavy glasses, Shaw throws the steering wall all the way to the left. The wheels scream, engine revving as it fish tails, the car leaving deep black skids down the road. It only slows her down slightly, but it’s enough. Enough to slam the gas pedal down again, jump the grass median, and cruise down the opposite side of the road. Gaze flickering to the console for half a second, Shaw sees the time.  _It’s 4:25 p.m._

She’d been out since at least eleven, doing anything in her power to stay away from the station. Not even the promise of a new number would have swayed her to return. She was pissed beyond belief, fingers twitching in rage at the idea of stepping foot on the terminal. Root’s smug grin at seeing she’s returned for more torture. She’d kept herself busy-  _mostly_ \- but, at seeing this opportunity, she couldn’t resist. The brilliance called to her with the voice of reason, her body aching for a real thrill. Something a roller coaster or a skydive could never give: control  _and_  recklessness in one cherry red package.

Yet, as she comes to a split in the road, she knows her time is up. Short lived as the ride was, the last thing Shaw wants is for a news chopper to spot her. While it wouldn’t bother her, she knows Harold would be more than happy to strap an ankle monitor to her in a moment’s notice.  _For the amount of time he spends with criminals, he still doesn’t enjoy a good crime._  With a sigh, Shaw veers off, slowing down as she comes to an empty pasture hidden behind a plethora of trees. Putting it in park, she allows the engine to die, relishing the last heaving turn of the motor before it silences. Taking the first key out, Shaw tosses it onto the passenger’s side seat. The second, she debates upon, then stuffs it in her pocket.

 _It’s one thing to leave a car for the first guy who finds it_ , Shaw thinks to herself, walking away.  _It’s another to let him kill someone because he doesn’t know how to handle 707 horsepower._

Her fingertips skim the sharp edge of the key, and she begins to think about how to get around to returning it. She could hand it to Harold, who will have undoubtedly seen the news report, and indulge in the utter distaste in his eyes. But then there would be a nagging talk about ’ _morals_ ’ and ’ _responsibility_.’ She could leave them on his desk, making the true culprit unclear.  _That seems better._

At the outskirts of her mind, Shaw can hear the faint whine of sirens as they scream at her, trying to find her in vain. Slinking off, she walks under the cover of heavy branches and thick weeds until each cop car soars by, then begins the short trek out on the shoulder. Cars speed by- some honking at her as they pass- and her hair is thrown forward with each. They come at her back, making it impossible to know exactly when they’re going to streak by. She doesn’t flinch once.

Making it to a small strip mall, Shaw meanders towards a large bench boxed in on all sides with grimy plexiglass. On a sludge-coated sign in a worn font, a time for the next bus is printed: 5:00 p.m. Checking the watch positioned at the sign’s side, she finds that she has twenty minutes to wait it out.

She reaches for her phone- it’s not there. The memory of Root taking it drowns her like a flash flood and burns her with the heat of an iron. Her jaw clenches at the mere thought, and she storms away from the bus stop, hands in her pockets. Part of her is glad; there’s no way for her to be tracked down for any unwanted company. Still part of her is slightly disappointed; wishing she had it just to throw the GPS chip out in spite. Part of her is relieved; she has a solid reason for not calling to check for any new assignments. Yet part of her is annoyed; unable to call Root if she did-  _maybe_ \- want to.  _Just to irritate her. And make sure she hasn’t been shot._

Shaw bites her lip, mind suddenly too jumbled for her taste. Pushing through the glass double doors of the closest mall entrance, a heat Shaw hadn’t known she’d been lacking surges up her sleeves and swallows her nose. A shiver runs down her back as the icy cold from the outside releases its tight grasp. She tries putting her thoughts into two separate categories:  _Relevant and Irrelevant._

However, one small problem occurs, and she angrily revises the sorting.  _Relevant. Irrelevant. Root._  As much as she wants to toss any thought pertaining to the hacker in the irrelevant pile, something in her head swears that she belongs in the relevant bin. Too prideful to back down and too tired to argue, Shaw brings this third party to life, and- to her slight distaste- a majority of clutter rests in that domain.

Was she just too touchy earlier? The word touchy leaves a sour taste in her mouth. To her, being touchy is like being weak and squishy and vulnerable- she is anything but that. Still, the raging outburst from the beginning of the day proves to be too hot tempered for justification. A blinding pang pings at Shaw’s temple and she rubs the spot, ignoring every passer and store as she crawls into her own world of thought.

She’d been wound pretty tight since the whole- since  _this_ \- happened. She isn’t sure what she wants to call it yet, and isn’t hurrying the process along. Still, it makes her tense.  _Am I doing it right or wrong? How would I know?_ Shaw has never been in a serious relationship- much do to the fact that she’s always preferred it that way- but what about now? _What’s different now? Root_ , it’s a given, Shaw knows, but it doesn’t make the process any easier. She’d been acting more or less the same, Root didn’t seem to mind it, but there was always this questioning in the back of her head. It was as if her mind had a game plan for everything except this.  _I’m just not wired for this sort of thing._

 _But maybe I don’t have to be._  For the umpteenth time, Shaw decides to push all the thoughts to the back of her brain. Pressing and pressing until they are paper thin- until they are nonexistent.  _For now,_ she decides, rolling her neck in a slow circle,  _we’ll only worry about the current problem._  

_And the current problem? Storming out like an idiot for the entire day._

With a couple minutes left to spare before the bus ride back, Shaw begins a plan of attack. She wracks her brain for anything thoughtful, but not too thoughtful. She thinks back to earlier, when Root’s arms were draped over her shoulders. Her mind’s eye scans through it frame by frame, until she comes across Root’s hands as she stole the phone away. Her fingernails were chipped and in need of repair, and Shaw faintly remembers Root commenting about needing more polish sometime in the week before. Yet, that seems like the sort of thing that’s too planned out. Turning to head back towards the entry doors, Shaw spots a small pizza outlet.  _Nothing says 'I only slightly admit I screwed up’ like cold, half eaten pizza, right?_

_____________\ We’ll Find You /____________

Root rocks from foot to foot in the elevator, watching the electronic, red numbers click up one at a time with snail-like speed. In one pocket, she has her cell phone; in the other, she has Shaw’s. Her fingers trace the outline of Shaw’s screen, worry slowly starting to eat away at her stomach once more.

Shaw had been a ghost the entire day. She hadn’t returned to the station, nor had she dropped in on Reese, Harold, or Lionel during the course of the day.  _Shaw can take care of herself,_  Root tells herself yet again. While she knows it’s true, it doesn’t squelch her unease any.

The elevator dings as the old, mirror doors glide open, releasing Root onto the ninth floor of her apartment building. If she hadn’t seen Shaw yet, it was unlikely she would until tomorrow. The thought, as silly as it seems to her, leaves a depression in her chest. She wonders for the first time if she’s finally crossed the line.

Sure, she’d broken down barriers plenty of times, popping personal bubbles with the pointed edge of her pocket knife. She lives for finding people’s solitude space, stepping inside of it, and making it her own. Getting comfortable in someone else’s house, letting them watch her do it, and not even once feeling bad about it. She loves especially doing it to Shaw. She loves finding where the line is, and seeing how far Shaw will let it bend for her. But this time, she worries she might have snapped it in two.

_What if I blew it?_

The question hangs over her head, haunting her like a malevolent spirit as it strikes her to the core. Coming to her door, she unlocks it with little thought, tossing her jacket off at once. She stops. Listens. _Is the television on?_  Brow raising in curiosity, she listens to a woman’s overly chipper voice ecstatically announcing tomorrow’s downpour. Root silently slips out of her boots, socks padding across the hardwood floors inaudibly. She comes to the kitchen, and can see the faint blue glow of the TV screen across the room. Creeping forward, stomach tight and fists braced for battle, something on the counter glints in the pale light, her attention being immediately drawn to it.

_Is that…_

A bottle of black nail polish sits atop the counter, glass bottle giving off a warped version of the spray-tanned blonde on screen. She picks it up, turns it over in her hands, and smiles. Placing it back down quietly, she heads towards the living room, apprehension melting into excitement. Her grin widens as she sees a small form under a blanket on her couch, arm hanging off the edge. She tries to force her smile down, can’t, then proceeds to the edge of the couch, dopey smile in full view.

She brings her hand down gingerly, softly grabbing the trim of the blanket and pulling it back. Almost at once, her wrist erupts in pain, entire arm feeling crippled from agony. A hand is wrapped around it tightly, twisting it up at an awkward angle. From behind the blanket, two large eyes peer out at her. They scan her over before relaxing, the grip releasing along with it. Root rubs her wrist lightly, fingers feeling slightly numb, and sits on the edge of the couch.

“Tired, Sam?” Root coos, affection spilling without a filter. Shaw rolls her eyes before closing them once more. Deciding that she hasn’t tested her luck enough today, Root brings her fingers delicately to Shaw’s face, pushing the lose strands out of the way. Shaw stiffens, but relaxes again after a moment, not bothering to smack Root’s hand away.

“… In  _other_  news,” the anchorman on screen says, taking place of the woman. “The stolen Hellcat has finally been recovered after  _hours_  of extensive searching. It is unclear  _who_  stole the vehicle, although a few witnesses at the dealership have described the culprit as a woman with  _dark_  hair,  _small_  build, and of  _medium_  height wearing mostly  _black_. If anyone has  _any_  idea who this might be,  _please_ …”

Root’s jaw unhinges the smallest bit, and she rolls it around, looking for just the right quip.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anyone like  _that_ , would you Sameen?” Root asks playfully, and Shaw opens her eyes. Sitting up, she crosses her legs, looking at the footage on screen. Something in her eyes says she knows all about that secluded plot of green grass with a cherry-red Dodge in the center, and Root catches it at once. “And you didn’t take  _me_?” She questions further in a mock-appalled tone. Shaw’s eyes narrow in response.

“Didn’t  _take_  it,” Shaw responds with irritation. Root opens her mouth to spit back a reply, stops, then grins a wicked grin.

“You’re right,” Root responds, shaking her head in a defeated tone. “They said  _medium_  height.” Root waits for a bullet to the kneecap; instead, she feels the heat of a thousand suns burning a hole into the side of her head. When she dares a glance back over, she’s blinded by the intensity of Shaw’s stare. Shaw stuffs one hand in her pocket roughly before slamming something down onto the coffee table. In the light of the TV screen, Root makes out a metallic key with the Dodge emblem carved in at the top. As if she’s proud of proving Root’s sarcastic comment wrong, she leans back, stretching her arms out over the back of the couch.

Looking at her a moment more, Root pushes herself further on to the couch, pulling some of the blanket over herself and resting her head on Shaw’s shoulder.

“That wasn’t an invite,” Shaw comments flatly, and Root closes her eyes.

“Since when have  _I_  waited for an invitation?” Root responds; Shaw shrugs in acknowledgement. Root feels a weight rising off her shoulders as the banter comes to an end, and the worry that had been running circles around her before gives way to overwhelming fatigue. She can feel her head growing heavy on Shaw’s shoulder as the sounds of the television become muffled white noise. After a minute, Root feels an electric bolt surge through her as Shaw’s arm falls down around her shoulder, reviving her from her sleep-like state just long enough to hear the slight snoring that escapes Shaw as her head drops down to rest atop Root’s own.


End file.
